


Layer 01:  I Wanted To Be...

by thegreatwordologist



Series: I Know Other 'Verses [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Cutting, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Rescue, Self-Harm, Suicidal Intentions, Suicidal Thoughts, happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatwordologist/pseuds/thegreatwordologist
Summary: Sometimes, masks are too hard to keep in place.  Sometimes personas must be shed.





	Layer 01:  I Wanted To Be...

**Author's Note:**

> All right, this fic needs a **serious and MASSIVE trigger warning**. Please  do NOT read if you're in any way sensitive to depictions of depression, self-harm, or suicidal planning. 
> 
> This is a standalone fic in the series "I Know Other 'Verses", and is not remotely canon-compliant. The idea that sparked this was to wonder: what if Martin didn't quite have the determination he does in canon? What would happen with all his CPL attempts?
> 
> Originally, this started out as a deathfic, mostly because I'm not in a good headspace right now and this was therapy for me. I hadn't intended for it to turn into what it was, but I'm glad it did. I'm still not in a great headspace, but I'm coping. 
> 
> A final note: Please know that not all "'Verses" fics will be this dark. I promise.

Martin was a better liar than anyone really gave him credit for. He had multiple personas to get through life, and now that he was here, he was shedding them slowly, imagining them drifting, like strips of tissue, 160 metres down to the water below. The small pocketknife cupped in his hand, concealed from view of anyone walking along the cliff-top, served as a physical symbol of the act. 

To an outside viewer, Martin looked like a man sitting on the cliff-top, legs over the edge and a relaxed smile on his face. His eyes crinkled with it, brow carefully kept smooth to avoid any suspicions. He leaned his elbows on his legs, hands between his knees - hanging down, hidden from view - and the sleeves of his too-large, black coat concealed the blood dripping down one hand.

He was haggard, cheeks sunken in a telling way, but he no longer noticed the hunger. He wasn't entirely sure he ever had. With the latest test result, though... hunger was nausea. Thoughts were barbs. His eyes stung every time he looked at his manuals, and he knew it was time.

It was time to stop hurting.

So he sliced a thin strip of skin from his hand, focusing on the feel of the sharp blade sliding through and watching as the strip plummeted down toward the waves below. That one was Martin-the-Middle-Child. Simon and Caitlin could get along without him. He was sorry that it would hurt his mum, of course, but... well, wasn't it kinder not to drag things out?

 _No,_ someone whispered in a voice as rich and smoky as caramel. _That? What you're doing? That isn't kind._ The voice was right there, right in his ear, heard over waves and wind alike, and Martin's head popped up. He half-expected to collide with someone, but there was no one there, and Martin's back slowly hunched again. 

No voice. No truth. Just his own brain, and he knew it lied.

He watched the blood drip down his index finger for a minute, smiling. Blood never had really seemed thicker than water, to him. At least, not until it coagulated, and this slice was too fresh. "Sorry, Dad," he whispered. "I've left Simon the van, though." His eyes slid shut, and Martin-the-Middle-Child sloughed off, imaginary skinsuit floating down the cliff with an airy grace that only Martin-the-Loser could see. When the water swallowed up his persona, Martin felt a little lighter. But there was still so much weight...

The knife carved up another thin sliver. The new ribbon of flesh was Martin-the-ManWithAVan. That skinsuit dropped straight down. No wind caught it, despite the way Martin's curls tousled as he leaned a bit further over the edge to see where the skinsuit in his mind's eye would land. Blood dripped a little faster, and his hand stung where wind ground dust into the open wounds, but it was such a distant sensation. No one needed his services really. Not in a town as small as Fitton.

"Hello?" 

Martin glanced up, and for an instant, his mask dropped away. He frowned at the older man moving to sit down beside him before smoothing the look into a smile and turning his wrist so that the coat hid the blood. "Hi."

"Feel that wind, hmm?" Warm brown eyes slanted over to Martin, and Martin found his teeth grinding together. Martin-the-Middle-Child was floating in the middle of the ocean, and Martin-the-ManWithAVan was scattered on the rocky strip of beach below his feet, and Martin couldn't craft up a new persona on the fly. Not now. Not like this. "Jelly baby?"

"What?" Martin blinked, and the bag was thrust toward him. Martin shook his head tightly as a whiff of sugar and artificial fruit floated from the bag to assault his nose. His stomach roiled.

"He's got the right idea, I thought," the man continued, twisting the bag closed and slipping it into an inner pocket of his coat. That done, he clasped large hands together, planting his elbows on his legs in a fashion similar to Martin, and stared out at the horizon where surf met sky. "Good place for a spot of _meditation_ , right?"

"Y-yeah," Martin agreed, his voice awkward. He couldn't move anymore, and tension was twisting up his spine. "Meditation."

The man turned to look at Martin finally, and Martin was struck by his face. The beard looked somehow wrong, though it served to hide at least a few of the stress lines. The man's eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, his hair soft wings of fluff streaked with grey, but it was his eyes...

"Oh," Martin breathed, twisting a little toward the man who sat beside him. "I know why you're here." 

The man smiled sadly, looking down at Martin's lap, and Martin followed his gaze in confusion until he realized that his turn had revealed what he'd been trying to keep hidden. Sudden fear numbed his fingers, and gravity tugged the knife free finally. Martin didn't hear the aborted whine from the back of his throat as he watched it fall, but the man did. 

"I'm Douglas," the man offered, and Martin's head jerked back up, staring at Douglas in confusion for a moment before nodding slowly. "Ex-husband," Douglas added, by way of explanation for his presence.

"...Martin. Ex... student, I suppose?" He was grasping, desperate for some semblance of normalcy. He didn't have a persona to fall back on, anymore, except Martin-the-Student. 

"What were you studying?"

"I wanted to be a pilot," Martin whispered, tears springing to his eyes again. He turned his face away, but Douglas had already seen. 

"No luck?" Douglas' voice was as muted as Martin's, and Martin's shoulders hunched.

"Never," he confirmed, reaching with his good hand to grasp his cut one, feeling the sting of skin on wound and wishing that pain was enough to quiet the pain within him. "Did... you leave?"

"No," Douglas shook his head, understanding Martin's question despite it missing a full clause. "She did. Tai chi." A large hand reached out, cupping Martin's knee, and Martin stared at it before looking back up at Douglas. "I'll make you a deal," the older man said, finally, and though he smiled, that smile didn't reach his eyes. Those brown depths were as solemn as a funeral.

"What?" Martin asked, the word barely breath given form.

"I have a hotel room with two beds, and I could use company." Martin's face shuttered, but he said nothing. "So... join me for dinner and the night, and I'll introduce you to my boss. You'll hate her." He flashed a grin of straight, white teeth, and Martin frowned.

"I don't want to...," 

"No no," Douglas cut him off. "No sex. Nothing like that. I just... need to hear someone in the same room," he admitted, twisting away from the horizon as though he were suddenly scared of it. "Look, take me up on it. I need the company, and you need..."

 _I need to fly._ Martin turned his gaze to the sky below them once more. 162 metres. He would fly for a few seconds, anyway.

"You need a job at an airline. Well, airdot. Charter service." His voice changed when Martin's spine stiffened dramatically. "You won't be a pilot straightaway, but... I could give you lessons?"

"Just dinner and..."

"Just that," Douglas confirmed, pushing himself away from the edge before clambering to his feet. He moved slowly, but so did Martin. One was age, but the other... Martin would never admit it was fear.

"You're not a Samaritan, right?" Martin asked, suspiciously, and Douglas threw back his head to laugh. 

"You won't say that when you know me," he assured the young man, holding out a hand. 

\---

Carolyn and Arthur had gone home first, but they always did. After three years of working as a steward at MJN, Martin had grown used to the habit. As he put away the last of the cleaning supplies, he heard Herc finish up the phone call to the florist, and he shot the old captain a smile. "All ready for your date?" The teasing words were offered without constraint, and Herc shot Martin a wide grin. 

"I think I am. She won't quite know what hit her."

"She will once it lands on the ground," Douglas drawled, from where he sat in the corner of the portacabin. "Two dozen roses are hard to miss." He speared Herc with a Look, then shot a conspiratorial grin at Martin. "Or were you referring to the ring?"

Herc rolled his eyes, but left rather than engage the two, walking straight-backed out of the portacabin in an attempt to salvage his dignity. Douglas laughed warmly, the sound fading as he realized Martin hadn't joined in.

The others were gone... and it was just the two of them, and Martin stood still near his locker, chewing on his lower lip. "Douglas," he finally murmured, but rather than move toward the first officer, he turned to his locker, opening it with a clatter.

"Martin?" Douglas frowned, his magazine set aside as he stared at the young man. "...Is something wrong?"

When Martin turned, it was with a large white envelope they both recognized. "It came this morning," Martin admitted, moving to sit down beside Douglas. Their eyes met, and Martin let Douglas read the fear in his. "I can't open it."

Douglas held out his hand, and Martin gave over the envelope without hesitation. The fear faded, anxiety whispering away as quiet returned, and Douglas set the envelope on his lap to reach for Martin's hands. His thumb brushed against three-year-old scars, and he gripped Martin's hands tightly. "Remember, it's just a matter of time," he promised softly. "Carolyn's already promised, right?"

Martin swayed a touch closer, squeezing Douglas' hands right back. "We'd have to find a fourth," he pointed out, and Douglas laughed.

"Then we will. He can fly with Herc," he promised, folding Martin's hands together between his two large ones, and leaning in so that his eyes were locked on Martin's. The open stare made Martin squirm slightly, but he met Douglas' gaze steadily otherwise. "It doesn't matter what this paper says, Martin," Douglas whispered, his voice low and warm. "You know that, right?"

"It _does_ matter!" Martin countered, tugging at his hands suddenly, and he knew the action gave away his nerves to Douglas.

"No," Douglas informed him, the word as gentle as his touch... and just as unbreakable. "It doesn't. Because if it's not the answer you want to hear, then we'll just start again." 

"I couldn't do that to you!" The protest burst out of Martin's lips before he could stop it, and Douglas smiled.

"You're not. _I'm_ doing it to you. Didn't I tell you three years ago?" He finally released Martin's hands long enough to tuck the envelope under his arm and rise, then reached out to pull Martin up as well. "You're going to fly."

And without another way to say it, Martin just leaned against Douglas' chest, closing his eyes.

_Thank you._


End file.
